


amour maigre (skinny love)

by orphan_account



Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Brat Timothée Chalamet, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Français | French, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, Hospitalization, Idiots in Love, Injury, Insecure Timothèe Chalamet, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Years, Sad Timothée Chalamet, Self-Destruction, Whump, Woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On New Year's Eve, Timmy and Armie have a lapse in communication, and it leads to some dramatic consequences.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087184
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	amour maigre (skinny love)

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from and inspired by the song of the same name by Bon Iver.

_Hey Armie. Happy New Year! I hope you’re having a good time. I’ve sure been having fun. It’s almost like you never even came back at all. Oh, and tell what’s her name that I said ‘hi…’_

_Armie, I haven’t heard from you since Sunday. What’s going on, man? If you really don’t feel the same way, just tell me. I know I’m a little bit younger than you, but we’re both adults, man, don’t treat me like a goddamn kid!_

_Hey asshole, it’s me again. ‘Lil Timmy Tim.’ This is the third message I’ve left you in as many hours, and if you think that’s clingy and embarrassing or off putting in any way, don’t worry too much, ‘cause this is the last time you’re gonna hear from me, Armie. I swear to God!_

_Hi Armie, it’s Nicole. Have you heard from Timothée, by any chance? He was supposed to call me last night so we could watch the ball drop, but all I’m getting every time I try him is a busy signal. If you hear from him, please tell him to call me! Thanks._

_Hello, this message is for Mr. Armand Hammer. This is Dr. Joyce Fields at Massachusetts General Hospital. You are listed as Mr. Timothée Chalamet’s emergency contact. Mr. Hammer, I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but there’s been an accident..."_

When he was finally able to get a new phone and he checked his voicemail messages, Armie dropped everything and booked a red-eye flight that was due to arrive in Boston at noon on New Year’s Day. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone in his hand, and he aimlessly scrolled through Facebook as Dr. Fields’ words reverberated through his mind. . _32 BAC. BP 190/100. 20% blood loss. Hypovolemic shock._

Timothée had seen some stupid tabloid article of him out walking with a friend of his. A woman. He had seen that, and then tried to call him. He had made assumptions when his call wasn’t returned. He had started to drink, and the later it got, the angrier he got. At the precise moment when the ball dropped in Times Square to usher in the New Year, Timmy fell from the loft at the party he had gone to, and crashed onto the huge glass coffee table on the lower level.

The table had shattered on impact. Timothée was somehow still conscious when someone had called 9-1-1, but by the time the paramedics loaded him into the back of the ambulance, he had passed out from blood loss. A shard of glass had embedded in his carotid artery, and he had suffered several deep lacerations on his chest and stomach requiring stitches. When Armie called Nicole after getting off the phone with the doctor, and then four hours later during his layover in Miami when he called the hospital again, Timmy was still unconscious.

“Jesus Christ!” Armie groaned. He slumped down in the airport chair, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

* * *

Three hours later, when his connecting flight landed in Boston Logan, Armie hurried through the terminal and called an Uber to take him the three miles to Mass General. He handed the driver $50 and didn’t wait for the change, blood roaring in his ears so loudly that he didn’t hear the kid yell ‘Thanks, dude!’ as he ran through the entrance doors. The few folks in the waiting area looked up in surprise when Armie wildly bellowed “Where is he?!”

The receptionist, a thin, pretty young woman with platinum blonde hair tied back in a bun, looked up at him and waved her hand. “Hello, sir. Please come on over to the desk, and I can help you find who you’re looking for.”

“Right, right. Okay.” Armie took a deep breath, only to get a mouthful of cotton and be reduced to a coughing, sputtering mess. He laughed as he walked over to her, his vision blurred by tears. He was a wreck, and it was only by the grace of God - and the hospital’s media policy - that there weren’t any paparazzi around to get a load of him now. Armie had no doubt that someone had been alerted to his presence, at some point, during his transnational travel over the past couple of weeks. 

From LA to NYC, then on to the Cayman Islands, then back to the States via Florida, and now here he was in Boston. Somewhere along the way, someone had taken a photo of him, and right now some sleazeball somewhere was writing a gossip piece about him, speculating about his private, personal business that in an ideal world would be just that. Armie sighed and, even though he knew it was frowned upon, pinched the front of his mask and took another deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to startle anyone. I just, I didn’t expect the literal first thing to happen in the new year to be that my friend had an accident. I mean, this is the second time that he’s had to come to the hospital in two weeks. I just flew nearly 2,000 miles to be with him. He’s, goddamn it, he’s about all I’ve got left.” Armie sniffed and closed his eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears. In any other situation, he would have been embarrassed. As it stood, he was presently overwrought and didn’t really give a damn what anyone thought.

The receptionist listened to Armie patiently and nodded sympathetically. “It’s alright, sir. It’s quite alright, and very understandable, for you to feel overwhelmed. Please, take all the time you need to calm yourself.” She crooked her index finger and beckoned him to come closer. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper and asked, “Now, then, I just need some information first. What is your name? And what is your friend’s name? I’ll look him up and give you directions to his room.”

“Oh, right! My name is Armand Hammer, and my friend is Chalamet. Timothée Chalamet.” Armie spelled the names for her, a little surprised that she didn’t seem to recognize either one. Or maybe she did, but in this context she was prioritizing being a professional over a fangirl.

Either way, she typed a few words, and within seconds came up with Timmy’s room number. She wrote it down on a little yellow post-it and tore it off the pad. “Here you are, Mr. Hammer. If you run into any trouble, please ask anyone on the floor. Oh, and here is a surgical mask, if you would rather have it.” She picked up a small box from beside the computer and held it out to him as well.

Armie took the post-it and a mask, smiling under his own. “Thank you, Avery,” he said, seeing her nametag. “You’re a lifesaver.”

* * *

In the elevator, Armie texted Nicole and took off his black cloth mask in favor of the surgical blue one. When he got to Timmy’s floor he balled the black one up into a paper towel, threw it into the trash can on the hall, and got some hand sanitizer from a dispenser on the wall. He rubbed his hands together vigorously for 30 seconds until it dried.

When he got to the door of Timothée's room, he lifted his hand to knock when the door abruptly opened. Nicole peered out at Armie, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. It was a look he was unfortunately becoming accustomed to. “Hey,” he said bleakly. “How is he?”

Nicole sniffed and closed her eyes. “He’s stable, but they’re going to keep him here for a few days, to keep an eye on him. He woke up about an hour ago. Adam called and talked to him, told him to take all the time he needs, but this is ridiculous, Armie. This stuff can’t keep happening. They need him back on set as soon as possible, and...I need my baby boy back.” She opened her eyes and glared at Armie, almost in accusation. Her eyes were nearly the same vibrant, expressive green shade as Timmy’s. Timothée looked so much like his mother, in fact, that for a moment Armie felt like Timmy himself was staring out at him.

Before he could answer, Nicole sidestepped Armie, but reached up a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey. That’s the hunger and the stress talking. I’m going downstairs to smoke a cigarette, and then get some lunch in the cafeteria. Do you want anything?”

“No thanks, I’m okay.” Armie took a deep breath and gave Nicole a one-armed side hug. “I mean, not in the strictest sense of the word. But I will be. And so will he. Just let me talk to him for a little bit.”

“Alright,” Nicole said softly. “He’s all yours until I get back.” She patted his back and reluctantly walked away. Armie waited until he heard the elevator ding to knock on the door. He tentatively pushed it open when he heard Timmy mumble “Come in.”

“Timmy. Hi.” Armie cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before Timmy responded. “Armie? Hey. Come on in, sit down.” He reached over and patted the gray aluminum chair at his bedside. “I’m sorry they don’t have a more comfortable seat. If I could, I’d let you sit on the edge of the bed.”

“It’s fine, Timmy. I’m fine.” Armie sat down and immediately winced at the feel of it. The chair had no cushion. Absurdly, part of Armie was glad, the part of him that had wanted to agree with drunk Timothée's voicemails, the part that felt so guilty and negligent that he thought he deserved it, and much, much worse. _‘This is just what you deserve for not answering his calls, for waiting so long and making him think you didn’t care. This is what you get. You **deserve** this pain.’_

Armie took a deep, sobbing breath, and tried to keep his voice steady. “Timmy, I’m sorry. Baby, I am so, so sorry.” He pulled the surgical mask off, folded it up and stuck it in his front pocket. He took Timmy’s leg in his hand and kissed the top of his bare foot. 

“I should have called. God knows, I should have at least emailed you! My phone literally died. The lithium battery exploded. It took me a little while to get a replacement, and then to get access to my voicemail. I know it’s been four days since I’ve talked to you. Five, almost. I should have messaged you on Instagram. I should have tried harder.”

The corners of his mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I could have, I should have, I would have. That’s all fine and dandy, isn’t it, after the fact? But I’m here now, Timmy. From the moment I heard you were hurt, I came running. Jesus, Timmy, I’ll go to the ends of the earth for you.” He kissed his foot again, then his ankle. Armie ran his tongue along the edges of his toes, in the skin between them. “Timmy? Talk to me, please. Have mercy on me, baby. I love you more than life.”

“Is that right?” Timothée dropped a hand on top of Armie’s head, twirling one stray strand of his hair around his fingers. “You do. You really do love me... No, Armie; _I’m_ the one who’s sorry. I saw one photo of you with some chick out in LA, and I lost my fucking mind. All I could do was overthink and drink until - well. I was so mad, Armie. I just wanted to hurt you, so I hurt myself. Please, please don’t be angry, Armie.”

For a long moment, Armie stared down at Timothée’s foot. “Angry? That is about the last thing I’m feeling. I love you. _Je t’adore_ , Timmy.” Timothée took Armie’s hand hard in his. Armie slowly looked up to see that Timmy’s eyes were wet, his jaw tight. _“Je t’adore aussi, Armie. Plus que quiconque!”_

He pushed his fingers between Armie’s, locking them together. He felt his tears slide down his cheeks and fall onto their wrists. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Armie sighed. He stared up at the ceiling. “When you leave this place, I’m going with you. You're stuck with me.”

Timothée gasped, his voice quivering as he spoke. “Really? Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” Armie replied fiercely. “I do. Even if that means I have to hold you down and hogtie you to keep you in one spot. And don’t try me, Timmy. I’m seven inches taller than you, and at least fifty pounds heavier. I don’t want to have to get rough with you, but I will if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” 

Timothée felt heat in his face and neck. His heart was pounding. He leaned forward and rested his head on Armie’s shoulder. His breath tickled Armie’s skin. “You kept your promise,” he whispered. “You came back…”

“Of course I did!” Armie wrapped his arms around him. He moved his hand past the tie of Timothée's hospital gown and gingerly stroked the skin of his back, tracing the contours of his ribcage and the gauze bandages that criss-crossed his torso. Timothée tried to sit still. Armie could feel him tremble beneath his touch. He whimpered. Slowly, like a tired baby bird sinking down into its nest, he turned his head aside into the warmth of Armie’s neck. “Armie,” he slurred dizzily. “I’m afraid.”

Armie lifted his arms around Timothée, pulling him close. His fingernails cut into Timothée’s skin, holding him tightly as he breathed against Armie’s throat. “Afraid?” Armie turned and licked his ear. He leaned into him, breathing in the scent of him, his very essence. “You have nothing to be afraid of. Playboy bunnies and supermodels can stand at the end of the road and beg me, for all I care, but nobody compares to you. I made a mistake, Timmy, but it was one that I will not make again.”

“Good,” Timothée purred. He kissed the skin below Armie’s ear, nibbled it with his teeth until he formed a small purple bruise. “I would hate to get overcome with jealousy and get violent again. That’s just not me. My mother raised me right. I’m a nice Jewish boy.”

Armie groaned and pulled Timothée even closer to him. Their breath commingled as he panted. “Timmy. Do you have any idea how badly I want to kiss you right now?”  


Timothée gripped the loose fabric of his sleeves. He gazed up at him, his eyes shining with a mischievous glint. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?” He lifted his head for Armie’s kiss, knowing that it would come. He opened his mouth wide and arched his hips toward Armie’s, moaning softly at the pain as the movement jostled him.

“Wait,” Armie gasped, breaking away from the kiss. “You’re still in too much pain. I don’t want to hurt you even more.”

“Whatever. We can’t go all in for a home run, I guess, but we can cover a few bases.” He let his lips drip over Armie’s. _“Première base: l'embrasse française."_

Armie moaned when Timothée slipped his tongue into his mouth. He tried to turn his head away, but his body betrayed him. Timothée unzipped Armie’s jeans and slipped his fingers into the hot gap of his briefs, seeking the heavy shape of his erection. He caressed the tip slowly while Armie moaned loudly against his lips. Timothée pulled back and grinned. _"Deuxième base: la caresse.”_

Armie groaned. He cupped Timothée’s face in his hands and kissed him. “Please stop. Please don’t touch me there. Timmy!” Timothée smiled against Armie’s lips and leaned against him shamelessly.

“Fine,” Armie growled. “Have it your way.” He pressed down on Timothée’s shoulders, until he was kneeling on his knees above him. His fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled Timothée's face roughly against the hard shape of him. Timothée ran his hands down Armie’s thighs. He slid Armie’s briefs and jeans down his legs, just enough to touch his bare skin. He tightened his hold on Armie’s cock.

With an agonized groan Armie thrust toward him. Timothée kissed the head, skimming his nails over the hot skin. Armie relaxed his hold on Timothée’s shoulders and panted as he explored him. He took deep, shuddering breaths between his teeth.

Timothée took Armie into his mouth. He wanted to feel Armie inside his own body. He closed his fingers hard at the base of Armie’s shaft and hummed as he thrust into his mouth in response. Timothée tightened his hold and pulled him, with no thought but to how Armie trembled and plunged himself deeper into his mouth. Timothée sank his fingernails into Armie’s skin. Armie pressed his fist into his mouth to stifle a yelp as his body jerked and shuddered. Timothée opened his mouth wide as Armie came with a rough, muffled sob.

Timothée swallowed and let him go. He was dazed and sat still until Armie gripped Timothée by his underarms and pulled him up, thrusting his tongue into his mouth as he held him hard against his chest. _"Troisième base,”_ Timothée said dreamily. _“Le sexe oral.”_

“Timmy,” Armie murmured. With a sudden, fierce move he pushed Timothée back against the pillow, dragging up his gown. He reached through the fly hole in his boxers and pulled his cock out. Armie bent down and kissed him, running his tongue along the length of him. Timothée gasped and struggled, lifting himself closer to Armie’s mouth. Where his tongue touched him, he convulsed. Timothée closed his eyes and whimpered under the heavy press and stroke of Armie’s tongue. When he came in a torrent of pleasure, Timothée clutched Armie’s hair and sobbed for breath, squeezing tears from beneath his eyelids as his orgasm tore through him.

* * *

A soft knock on the door woke Timothée from what seemed like just a few minutes of sleep, a light doze. Armie was sitting in the chair by the bed, checking the weather forecast on his phone. “I’m back, boys. They didn’t have much to choose from, so I just had some tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” Nicole smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you two kiss and make up?”

In answer, Armie stood up and bent down to kiss Timothée. He took his face in his hands and kissed his chin, his lips, and the tip of his nose. “Bye, baby. I’m gonna leave you with your mom for now, but I’ll be back soon. I have to find a hotel for the night, or for however long it takes for you to get out of here and wrap shooting for this film. We’ll figure out the details little by little. I love you. Happy New Year.”

Armie let go of him and turned toward Nicole. “You too, Nicole. Happy New Year. I’ll see you later.”

He reached into his pocket and slipped his mask on, whistling as he left the room.

Nicole snorted and waved goodbye. “Well. I’ll take that as a yes!”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wasn't sure how this would turn out when I sat down and started writing it, but one thing led to another and this is the result. Happy New Year, all. ✌️🎉🥳
> 
> The "Adam" mentioned is Adam McKay, the director of _Don't Look Up,_ the upcoming sci-fi comedy film Timmy is currently shooting in Boston.
> 
> Translations:  
>  _"Je t'adore"_ \----->"I love you."  
>  _"Je t'adore aussi, Armie. Plus que quiconque!_ "----->"I love you too, Armie. More than anyone!"  
> You can probably figure out the rest. ✌️


End file.
